


and this is a love song dedicated to you

by OrsFri



Series: eve of the hour [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: Prequel to eve of the hour. Ivan falls unwittingly in love with Gilbert in pieces, in fragments, in verses.





	and this is a love song dedicated to you

**Author's Note:**

> This happens loooong before [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950557). Pre-relationship.

"I think, in the end," Gilbert says, "we're both some sorts of attention whores, you know."

"Do I have a jealousy issue? I don't think so, but you definitely do," says Gilbert, another time.

"Am I wrong?" Gilbert pesters, "am I ever right?"

"Ivan," says Gilbert, his smile twitching into a wry smile, eyes dancing with amusement, "why do you look at me like that?"

Ivan keeps his face carefully blank. "I don't know," he says.

-

There's this one time, when both of them ended up lying on the grass by the water, counting their breaths and staring at the wobbly reflections of lights on the surface.

"Let's talk about, about relationships," Gilbert says, and drinks another gulp from his can of beer. "What are some major turn-offs that is pretty much just game over for you?"

"Wow, the real questions right from the get go." Ivan reaches towards the sky, right palm up. He spreads his finger; joins them together again. If he squints hard enough, he thinks he can catch glimpses of stars. "Cheating, I supposed. Once someone cheat on me, it doesn't matter what they say, I won't take them back."

"Harsh," Gilbert comments, "won't you even hear them out?"

"I'll let them talk, but it won't change my mind," Ivan says, "it's too much."

"Too painful." Gilbert downs the remaining of his can, punctuating it with a loud _hahhh._ "I don't think I'll take anyone who cheats on me back too, but who knows. I've never been cheated on before."

"I have."

"Damn." He opens another can. "Did they regret it?"

"I won't know." Gilbert's head lolls as he stares at Ivan. Ivan stares firmly back, and they hold each other's gaze before Gilbert finally looks away. Ivan sighs, rolling over to his front. "So, what about you?" Ivan asks, propping himself up on his elbows. "Any... major turn-offs?"

Gilbert shrugs. "I don't know, never thought about it. I don't even date much." 

"Pity," Ivan jokes, but Gilbert shakes his head.

"You think," he says, smiling sardonically.

-

The world changes and sometimes, Gilbert once reveals, he doesn't feel like he's part of it, swept away with relics by the currents of time and washed out onto distant shores, waiting to be uncovered, even after the weight of the world has pressed him into fossils.

"Gilbert," Ivan has said, a little too tenderly, "that is fucking depressing."

Gilbert's eyes light up. "I got you to curse in English!" He doubles over with laughter. "Oh my god, it sounds hilarious. I can't believe this."

"Screw off," Ivan mutters, kicking it at Gilbert's shoes - harshly, of course, because this is Gilbert. And Gilbert laughs even harder, hiding his face on Ivan's back because he's tearing up. It's quite a scene; people stare. Ivan determinedly avoids eye contact. "Hey, get up, you're embarrassing me."

"Like you care about that," Gilbert manages. He rests his forehead on Ivan's back, shoulders still trembling as he calms down. "Seriously, you should listen to yourself."

"I am," replies Ivan, "you know, the way the human body works? You can hear yourself?"

Gilbert chortles again. "You," he gasps between heaves, "you sound so _affronted._ "

"Thank you for the commentary, Gilbert, it is very much unappreciated. I hate you."

"Aw, I love you too," Gilbert teases, and Ivan feels a weird ache in his chest, almost like someone is choking his windpipe, squeezing out the final breath in a delicate exhale.

-

"I can sing pretty well," Gilbert argues, "I can fucking rap. Come on: you're my number one fan, you _have_ to support me."

"Sure," Ivan allows, "I'll make sure to say, 'I told you so,' when your 'singing' eventually earns you a noise complaint."

"Oh _no_  you didn't _just_."

"I did _just,_ " Ivan retorts solemnly. "Come on now, Gilbert, it's midnight, and we are at a residential area."

"Pfft." Gilbert sticks both hands into his hoodie's jacket. "It's never quiet around here anyway, what's one more guy singing?"

"An absolute asshole."

"You know, Ivan, I will appreciate it a lot if you censor your words." He breaks into a jog. "Hurry up; if we didn't get the tampons back to Liz in the next five minutes, I am sure she'll make sure I know how shitty she felt."

"I can't believe you volunteered to help."

"Oh, you know what they say about kids that grow up together," Gilbert dismisses, "either they hate each other, they get together, or they get their hearts broken - but either way, they know each other _so well_ they know what underwear _design_ the other wear. You'll get used to it."

Ivan hurries up beside him. They pause at a traffic light, because Gilbert still refuses to break traffic laws even after so many years living away from Germany. There comes the infamous 4 seconds pause, and Ivan clears his throat. "So," he begins, "why don't you call me Vanya?"

"Hmm?" Gilbert blinks. "Why should I?"

"Everyone else calls me Vanya - everyone who's a _friend,_ at least."

"I don't know." Gilbert pauses, staring absentmindedly at the passing cars as he ponders. "I supposed it feels too personal. Like a pet name of sorts."

"It's not an endearment," Ivan explains, "it's a common nickname, used between family and friends. Vanechka, or Vanyusha, are for close friends and lovers, so that's still fine. It's just that most people feel weird using it. I don't blame them; there are too many letters for a normal English nickname." Gilbert snorts. " _Unless_ , you call me Vanyushen'ka, which is honestly so embarrassing that only my grandmother or my very attached and smitten lover who is currently at the peak of our honeymoon phase will use that name."

"That's... oddly specific."

"It's like being called 'sweet honey pie-wy' by your mom."

Gilbert can't quite suppress his bark of laughter. "Pie-wy?" he echoes, "say that fast enough, and it sounds like some slang for the newest fad. Like, _hey, you got a pie-wy?_ Or, _I just pie-wyed you_  - oh god, that sounds like -"

"-Buy weed, yes."

"it sounds so fucking stupid." Gilbert makes a face. " _Pie-wy,"_ he repeats, almost challengingly.

"Pie-wy." Ivan agrees.

"Pie-wy."

" _Pie-wy._ "

"Sounds almost as ridiculous as _Vanyushen'ka,"_ Gilbert teases, and Ivan startles, because no one ever catches _and_ remembers all the different variants of Russian diminutives simply from a throw-away comment.

Ivan is cut off from replying by the traffic lights turning green; he pulls his scarf higher up his face and hunches into himself as he walks. Then, Gilbert mutters, almost uncertainly, like he's tasting out the word, "Vanya," and chuckles quietly to himself. "Sounds weird though. It's too... cute."

Ivan pulls his scarf even higher up to hide his pinking ears.

-

Ivan toes the soil as an old lady ( _the mother,_ he thinks absently) sobs beside him, loud ugly tears that stream rapidly in blobs down her face.

He's aware that his eyes are wet too, but at least he isn't openly weeping.

There is a funeral service, and Ivan stands through it, sits through it, following procedures in a daze as whoever is there direct him to _sit down, sir, have you been to a funeral before? I'm sorry that your first time has to be to attend the funeral of someone as great as he is - he has been. Oh god, I can't believe he's dead,_ and so on and so forth.

He doesn't remember when, but somehow Gilbert manages to find his way over, and plops himself in the seat beside Ivan. The feeling of the side of their thighs pressing together acts as a constant weight anchoring Ivan to reality, a sense of solidness amidst the numbing limbo he feels as the scene unfolds.

Attending a funeral feels like watching a play, and he's staring at it all behind a thick fogged glass, with all the melodrama and the tears and the praises, the reminiscing and the eulogies being the little reveals that tells the audience the backstory, everyone as brilliant actors in their roles playing the part of grieving loved ones, so sad, so miserable; so much missing, so much longing.

It's only after it ends, and everyone is making their way out, that the pain hits and knocks all his breath out of his chest.

"Gilbert," he suddenly says, "Gilbert, why does it hurt so much?" He blinks rapidly, forcing himself to breathe deeply. "I don't want to cry. How are you not crying?"

Gilbert pauses and grabs his shoulders, turning Ivan around to meet him in the eye. "You-" he begins, searching for something on Ivan's face. Ivan ducks his head.

Gilbert's grasp tightens for just a second before he recoils, clenching his fists and forcing it down to his sides. "You," Gilbert begins, and sucks in a sharp breath when his voice cracks. Ivan looks up, still blinking back tears, and Gilbert cups his face. "You are truly loved," Gilbert whispers, almost wondrously, eyes wide open with something like jealousy, "you're so young and so loved, for all your life. You've never lost someone before, have you?"

He wipes a thumb under Ivan's left eye. "Don't cry," he continues, voice so soft it is barely a rasp. "But if you do, don't worry; you'll learn how to stop one day. Then you'll wish you can still bring yourself to cry," and he lets Ivan presses his face against his shoulder, patting Ivan's back as Ivan wipes his snot and his tears on Gilbert's rented suit, an ill-fitting thing that, Ivan thinks hysterically, makes this funeral all the more pathetic.

Gilbert holds him until his shoulder stops shaking, in the middle of the aisle of a church that is mostly cleared-out. Then, as Ivan is breathing shakily, gently detaches himself and strokes his hands down Ivan's arms, finding both of Ivan's hands and squeezing it.

"Come on," says Gilbert, "let's go."

-

(And these are memories, these are fragments, these are verses of a love song dedicated to you.)

Gilbert tugs on the wires of Ivan's earphones. Ivan pulls out a side. "What are you listening to?" Gilbert asks.

 _You,_ Ivan thinks, _always you._ "Something," he says, "I think you'll like it." He holds up the dangling side, and Gilbert takes it.


End file.
